


The Streets of Chicago

by hazey_sloths



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 02:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13731549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazey_sloths/pseuds/hazey_sloths
Summary: someone asked me to write about Neil using a knife... essentially....





	The Streets of Chicago

He was strongly opposed to it at first. The thought of holding something so soiled with his father’s touch made his skin crawl, left the taste of copper and bile on his tongue. Somewhere between countless kisses and rooftop smokes, Andrew had pressed one into his palm. Halfway through his adamant protesting, his words were swallowed by Andrew’s hot mouth against his. 

Neil knew there was no winning this discussion. He gave up eventually on grounds that even if he talked himself to death, Andrew would watch with that same blank slated look and still get his way. The weight of the knife against his skin always felt cold but it began to feel less like his father’s weapon and more like the cold steel of Andrew’s shield. It grew a little more comfortable in his grip.

They were two years out of Palmetto, and living what Neil assumed was Andrew’s worst nightmare. Exy took up most of their time, travel to see one another took another large chunk, and seeing each other was far more difficult than they had imagined. They made it work, though and there were some talks about transferring teams to be closer together. 

The streets of Chicago were bustling, despite the massive amount of snow that was coming down. They had met up for Christmas with Chicago being a halfway mark for them both. Andrew, who had gotten in late last night, was still buried underneath blankets and asleep. Neil had slipped out of bed in search of something to eat, and once finding that nothing in room service looked good, he decided to stretch his legs out some. 

He’d had to open the curtain a little to get dressed. The light cut a small strip out of the darkness across the bed, illuminating the only visible bit of Andrew, which was the very top of his head. Neil had no idea how he was breathing from underneath the blankets but since he could hear just a faint snore, he didn’t let himself worry. He would be back before Andrew woke up.

The wind blew roughly through the street. Cold, hard snow flew into Neil’s face. He shivered hard, pulled the collar of his jacket up over his nose and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets. Weather, he decided, was nothing short of a bitch and he desperately wished they had gone somewhere warmer. He wasn’t opposed lying in bed with Andrew all day but the thought of being too cold to run in the morning was absolutely agonizing. 

He slipped as he crossed the street toward a strip of shops. Arms still wheeling for balance, he managed to hit the sidewalk just as cars began to move. Cheeks burning, he brushed snow off his legs. No one knew him here. There was no reason for him to be so embarrassed.

“Are you alright?” A woman put her hand gently on Neil’s arm. She let go as soon as he jerked back and smiled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

She stumbled a little as a man rushed past her. His bag hit her side roughly, shoving her forward. Neil reached out to break her fall and once she was steadied, he lifted his chin over the top of his jacket and said, “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. Are you okay?”  
The woman waved her hand dismissively. “Of course. Wish that jerk had stopped long enough to apologize.” She brushed some snow off her jacket and gave Neil another smile. “I’m about late for work but have a nice day!”

“You too,” he said. He watched her walk off for a moment before heading his own way. There was a small grocery store just down the street, the neon sign just barely visible through the blizzard. His hope was that they had decent coffee on stock and not the half assed powered shit like the hotels. That made a difference in Andrew’s morning. That, and copious amounts of sugar. 

He welcomed the heat of the store as soon as he stepped inside the doors. There were two small registers and a few self checks. Other than the few cashiers and stockers, the store seemed relatively empty. Perhaps no one had bothered to brave the storm. Neil had no choice. If there was one thing he was looking forward to on this, it was getting to kiss Andrew and that wouldn’t happen without coffee.

Six bagels, six doughnuts, two pounds of sugar and one bag of ground coffee later, Neil watched the checker in front of him slide his items over the scanner with a vacant expression. She didn’t make small talk, which was a relief. Neil never knew what to say and somehow, they would always trail off as their eyes drifted up towards his scarred face. 

After shoving the receipt into his bag, she handed it to him, nearly dropping it in the process and half-heartedly wished him a happy holiday. He didn’t respond but she didn’t look like she cared. With a heavy shudder, Neil forced himself back outside and down the street. 

After a minute, he stopped to readjust his grip. His hand was incredibly cold, already bright pink and the bag wore a white stripe across his fingers. He breathed on them to warm up and was focusing on trying to hold the groceries where he could keep both hands in his pockets when he was shoved down the alleyway and up against a wall. 

The force knocked the air out of his lungs in one sharp gasp. His head was slammed back into the bricks, a hand curled tightly around his throat. His vision glitched for a moment he was shook roughly and his gaze settled on a mousy looking guy with shifty eyes.

“I knew it was you, Wesninski,” the man said. His hand tightened just a little and Neil’s chest hitched in protest. 

He forced the panic down, did a mental check on any injuries to himself. Other than his head, he was alright. The man wasn’t quite smart enough to pat Neil down for weapons but from look in his eyes, Neil guessed he was far too nervous to think of that. 

“I don’t know you.” Neil struggled a little and the man shook him. The sleeve of his jacket fell a little and Neil saw marred skin on his wrist, patched with several remnants of ink from an old tattoo. A feeling as familiar as an old friend, clawed through him. It was colder than the wind.

Years and years ago, a few men had tattooed a knife into their wrist as a sort of gang symbol. Furious with their carelessness, Nathan Wesninski had sliced them all away and warned all of his men of the consequences of recognizable marks. They were men of business in the eyes of the law and that was how they were to remain. Neil had watched his father tear the skin away but he had done a sloppy job, leaving bits of ink behind. The ringleader, Seamus, had gone last and Nathan had used a pretty dull knife to hack away the fresh tattoo.

Seamus watched the recognition dawn in Neil’s eyes and sneered. “Of course you do, little Wesninski. Daddy’s dead and now all bets are off on you.”

Neil rolled his wrist, testing the awareness of his assailant. The knife Andrew gave him slipped a little of its sheath. Seamus didn’t notice; he was too busy grabbing for his own knife, strapped against his hip. Neil stayed silent, worked slowly on coaxing his knife into his hand. He felt the blade slide against the soft skin on his wrist and barely suppressed a wince. 

“The Moriyamas will kill you,” Neil said. He could feel the memory of fire racing up his arms, cold steel cutting into his wrists as Lola carved him up. That was the last time he’d been cut by a knife. The memory was enough to make him feel too small and helpless and his body jerked instinctively away.

Seamus waved his knife dangerously close to Neil’s eye and laughed. “Only if they can find me.” He leaned closer to Neil, setting the knife against his cheek. “What’s the saying; snitches get stitches? You’ll need to be stitched back together. Should we start with your tongue?”

He felt his skin break just a little, felt a hot blood slide halfway down his face until it froze. The knife fell into his hand, and adrenaline hit him like a heat wave. He’d been running his whole life. He wasn’t going to run again. Nathaniel brought his arm up sharply, and a spray of blood caught him full in the face. Seamus howled and jerked away, breathing heavily. His arm hung limply at his side, blood quickly soaking through the sleeve of his jacket. 

“You’ve gotten sloppy, Seamus,” Nathaniel said. His voice was empty, dripping at the edges with disgust and superiority. He toyed with his knife, casually wiped the blade on his leg and ran a thumb over the edge. The skin split clean before blood rose in the cut. “I thought my father taught you to be better. Then again, I guess you were as much of a disappointment as I was.”

He could hear the slide of Seamus’s clenched teeth, felt the lunge before it happened. He stepped aside neatly, slashing out just as Seamus passed him. He felt his knife catch on bone and pulled hard as he stepped back. Seamus grunted, curled over as he gasped for breath and pressed a hand to his side. Nathaniel watched, mouth twisting into a mocking, sinister smile. He waited until Seamus straightened. A small pool of blood had melted the snow by his feet. Seemingly unconcerned with his wounds, Seamus took a staggering step forward.

Nathaniel brushed snow out of his eyes, knife dancing between his fingers. He laughed, a cruel short sound that he didn’t know he was capable of making. “What? Do you need to take a break?”

“Bastard,” Seamus snarled. He threw himself forward, teeth bared.

Nathaniel felt the blade grind against his hip bone, drag down his leg, and swallowed a scream. He dropped his knife, hand pressing into the deep cut as he tried to staunch the bleeding. His shoulder hit the wall, hand scraping brick in search of something to hold him up as his leg started to give out. He twisted away, trailing blood as he threw himself to the side. Seamus’s blade came dangerously close to his ear. 

Snow stuck to his hip, froze his blood and made his leg stiff. Still, he forced himself to crouch and catch Seamus in the middle with his shoulders. He felt the man’s breath rush out of his lungs and drove him down into the snow. Seamus’s boot caught him in the chin, snapping his head violently to the side. He spat aggressively, clearing enough blood from his mouth to shoot Seamus another toothy grin. 

They clashed in the middle of the alley again, neither giving ground for a moment before Seamus’s boot caught on a patch of ice. Nathaniel threw him back, grabbing at his knife hand as he fell. He kicked Seamus in the face and wretched his arm in the opposite direction. He felt the bone shatter, wrist going limp as the man screamed in pain. The knife fell to the ground and Nathaniel picked it up. 

He knelt beside Seamus, spat blood in his face and leaned close. The man was breathing harshly, blood loss and pain making it harder for him to stay focused. He tried to speak and Nathaniel pressed the knife against his lips. 

“Disappointing,” he said. He put a knee on Seamus’ chest to hold him down and let the broken arm drop from his grip. He put a hand over Seamus’s mouth, sliding the knife neatly into his belly. He had only had enough training to hack away at dead animals but he knew where to hit some nonfatal spots. He leaned close, feeling the blood bubble up between his fingers. “You’ll want to get that fixed. And then I would keep running, because I will tell them where you are.”

He stood up, jaw clenched with the effort not to limp as he took a few steps back. Seamus struggled to stand and Nathaniel watched. He could imagine just how much he looked like his father, icy blue eyes and a smile to match. Perhaps that was why Seamus did his best to get away. 

Nathaniel watched him stumble pitifully out of sight and stayed where he was in case the man came back. Once he was sure, he felt his leg finally give. He crawled over to the wall, chest heaving for breath. His knife was sitting several feet away. After a long internal debate, he forced himself to grab it. His thumb slide around the hilt, tracing the shape of it to ground himself. Several rough edges dragged at his skin and he turned the knife around to look at it.

A.M. He blinked hazily at it and sighed heavily. He should’ve been back in the hotel ages ago, making coffee and trying not to cringe as Andrew dumped sugar into his cup. He couldn’t stand now, he was too exhausted. Teeth gritted, he forced his cold, bloody, stiff fingers to dig for his phone.

To: Andrew Minyard

Message: Help me. -N

Neil hit send and let his head fall back to watch the snow spiral down on him. Andrew would find him. Andrew always found him.


End file.
